One Day at a Time
by SSRegallyChamp
Summary: When Marty McFly departed 1955 in a time machine, life continued on for the people left behind. In the thirty years that follow, a lot changes for them. A series of oneshots taking place between 1955 and 1985.
1. Do Not Open

...

Monday, November 28, 1955

...

Dr. Emmett Brown was, by nature, a man of science. Ever since he was a small child, there had been a drive instilled in him-a drive to learn more, to know more, to accomplish more. He had a thirst for knowledge, one that would never fully be sated no matter what he did. There would always be more that could be known, always another mystery of the universe to be revealed.

At age eleven, he had read a Jules Verne book for the first time. From then on, he vowed to devote his life to uncovering those little mysteries of the universe.

He knew there were boundaries, though. There were things in the universe that were better off forever hidden to man. Unspoken, but important nonetheless, limits were respected by him when it came to his profession.

The sciences were almost addicting in that fashion, he supposed. That same desire to learn that could help so many could have serious consequences if taken too far. If man knew too much and possessed too much power over things far beyond their control, who knew what would happen?

The forces of space and time were an example of something that was not to be tampered with. After all, no man should know too much about their own destiny.

It didn't keep him from wondering what the future held in store, though. What sorts of things would mankind accomplish in his lifetime? What new things would be learned? And on a more personal note, what would become of him in particular?

He would have found all those answers out through the natural course of time. At least, he was supposed to. The interference of a time machine-built by himself, no less-and the boy inside it had changed all that.

Although he hadn't learned much about the future, he had been told just enough to fuel his curiosity more. He knew that an actor would become President of the United States. He knew that radiation suits would become a necessary item of clothing because of the fallout from the atomic wars. He knew that people would carry portable television sets and play music through small boxes attached to headphones-apparently, technology would advance significantly by 1985.

Most importantly, he knew that he would someday befriend a young boy named Marty McFly who would be sent back to 1955 in a time machine made by none other than Emmett himself, and that the machine would also cause him to become trapped in the Old West after his future self's and Marty's second trip to 1955.

All that information didn't add up to much, though. He had only received vague details of what was to come. It was just enough to pique his curiosity, to tease him, to tantalize him. It had kept him up at night, as his mind attempted to fill in the gaping holes and answer the questions of that one fateful week. Having so little knowledge about the future was worse than having none at all. It had only left him wanting to know more.

The future was exciting, and frightening, and above all, fascinating. It was worthy of all the impatience and anticipation that Emmett had regarded it with. The year 1985 couldn't arrive quickly enough for him.

It had been hard, resisting the urge to bombard Marty with questions during his stay in the mansion to figure out even more about the future. He'd wanted to know so much-like how they met, why he chose to be friends with him, and how the time machine worked. It had been a struggle to have a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue and not have been able to ask any of them, instead keeping them bottled inside until he felt like he was going to explode.

He had done the right thing, though, and had not pried for any further information. The less he knew, the better off things would be.

Besides, it wasn't like he'd be able to ask the boy anything anymore. He was gone. There was no visit or telephone call in the world that would bring him back-he simply didn't exist anymore, having been returned safely to his proper era. Hell, he wouldn't even be born for another thirteen years.

Though Marty was gone, having never really belonged there in the first place, he had left something behind. A letter. Or, to be more accurate, the torn-up pieces of a letter. Tiny bits of paper that, had Emmett been more sensible, should have been thrown into the fire the minute he had first laid eyes on them.

But, for whatever reason, they had not been burned. Instead, they remained scattered across his already messy desk in the mansion's study, bathed in a golden glow from the lamp installed above the piles of dusty paperwork, pens, and pencils.

Maybe Emmett let them remain there because of sheer curiosity. Maybe it was because the letter was undeniable proof that the experience was more than a simple hallucination induced by hitting his head on a sink. Maybe it was because he just missed Marty already. The letter was the only trace left of him, after all. Just the note and his memories.

For whatever reason, the torn-up letter that undoubtedly contained yet another secret about the future remained on his desk. He couldn't bring himself to read it, because of the risks and dangers it could pose. He couldn't throw it out, either, because he genuinely wanted to know what was inside. The desire to know what the letter contained and the knowledge that doing so could cause an even bigger disruption to the fabric of time fought with one another, with neither side emerging on top.

The urge to read the letter had been strong ever since the first night after Marty had left, when he had removed the pieces from his pocket and moved them to the desk in the first place. It had grown ever since.

Every time he happened to pass by the desk, he would want nothing more than to go and tape it back together. Every time, he would force himself to put the paper down and remind himself that whatever was in the letter would be found out by the natural course of time. It grew harder every time to put the paper back down and continue with business as usual.

On one November evening, the desire to know won out. Something inside him finally snapped, and his own curiosity and impatience got the better of him. He knew it was wrong, and he knew the risks it entailed. But somehow, he continued anyway, unable to stop.

He sat down in the desk chair, successfully finding a roll of tape underneath an old blueprint after only a few seconds of searching, and put the letter back together. With long and nimble fingers, he pieced it back into something resembling its original state, and taped it together.

He knew that there was still a chance to stop and throw it out before he discovered what it had to say. He ignored that fact, and began to examine the paper anyway.

What the hell, he figured.

_Dear Dr. Brown,_

_On the night that I go back in time at 1:30 AM, you will be shot by terrorists._

_Please take whatever precautions are necessary to prevent this terrible disaster._

_Your friend,_

_Marty._

The hastily scribbled words burned into Emmett's mind instantly-even when he blinked in surprise, he could still see the letter in his head just as clearly as if his eyes were open.

"Great Scott," he half-whispered aloud to nobody in particular. The letter slipped out of his hand, falling gently to the floor below. Barely registering it and letting the letter remain on there, his jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide as saucers.

He was going to be shot. By terrorists. He was going to die.

Well, of course he was going to die. Everyone does at some point. But knowing that one day you'd pass away was a different story than knowing all the exact whens and hows and whys of the event.

Suddenly, his previous elation over living to see 1985 didn't seem to matter as much.

It all made sense now, he thought. His future self's terrified expression on the portable television set as he yelled to make a run for it, Marty's repeated attempts to tell him something that Emmett wouldn't listen to, the pained glances sent his way-that one letter had explained so many of the little things that gave him pause over the week-and-a-half when he resided at the mansion.

In Marty's mind, his trip to 1955 was probably the last time he would ever see his friend. He had probably just watched Emmett be killed by the terrorists, seen him lying on the ground with blood seeping onto the cold pavement, the sounds of gunshots still ringing in his ears, and...

_No_, he reminded himself. _You mustn't think that way._

He couldn't die. He couldn't die on the very same night when his future greatest invention was finally completed. There were so many other times and places he'd wanted to see, and so many things he'd wanted to do.

And what of Marty himself?

"No," he said. He couldn't disappoint the teen like that, not after all the trouble the scientist had (would?) caused for him with the machine. He couldn't do that to someone who would one day call him a close friend. It was risky, but he was going to do everything in his power to prevent the incident from happening.

He paced back and forth, thinking out loud to himself. "I could possibly wear a protection of some kind against the bullets, or...avoid interfering in terrorist matters altogether..."

Stopping and bending down to pick up the newly taped-together letter, he glanced at it one last time. Any possible speck of annoyance he'd felt towards the boy's irresponsibility and disregard towards his wishes were replaced by an overwhelming gratitude towards the "future boy" for everything he'd done. Marty had given him a sense of hope, and the knowledge that one day he would make something of himself by inventing something that worked. And most importantly of all, he would save his life at least once-possibly twice if his trip to the Old West was concerned.

As he folded the letter back up and placed it inside his desk drawer, he made the decision to hold onto it and follow its instructions to the letter.

One day, he'll have the chance to show Marty the note. Maybe then he'll get the chance to tell the boy what he had done for Emmett, as he had probably done much more than he realized.

But that day was decades away.

It was going to be difficult having to wait thirty years to properly express his gratitude.

But for now, he settled for silently thanking the time traveller from the future.

At the time, it was all he could do.


	2. Breakthrough Gone Wrong

...

Wednesday, August 1, 1962

...

_From the Scientific Journal of Dr. Emmett Brown..._

_8/1/62_

_2:07 AM_

_Tonight marks a major breakthrough in the time machine! I have discovered a possible way to funnel the 1.21 jigowatts of electricity needed to power the flux capacitor. It is in the form of a very powerful electric generator fueled by an internal combustion engine, similar to the ones used in automobiles. Since the finished machine was sent back to its proper time period through the use of a bolt of lightning, I decided to employ a similar concept. Hopefully, the machine will be able to artificially generate the amount of electricity of the bolt._

_Although the finished time machine had been powered by plutonium, I don't feel especially comfortable dabbling in nuclear power. I'd like to change the timeline as little as possible, but the plutonium is an unnecessary danger that might someday put my life at risk (if my theory that the plutonium is the reason I was in danger of dying in the future is true). I've attempted to find an alternate power source. _

_A rough prototype of the generator has been completed, and I plan on running the first test very shortly. Of course, there's still the matter of increasing the contraption's capacity for power, not to mention making it small enough to be mounted onto an average-sized vehicle, but I suppose I'll worry about that at a later time, assuming tonight's experiment goes according to plan._

Emmett closed his private scientific log and put the pen with which he'd written his latest entry back into its place in the inkwell. He felt a thrill of anticipation over what he would do next. Months, no, _years_, of careful designing, poring over blueprints, selecting the correct materials, spending long nights working, and putting the experiment together piece by piece had led to this night. Now, he finally had something to show for all that work-something real and tangible that (hopefully) worked for once. If the testing went well, he'd be one step closer to the ultimate goal, although it still felt impossibly distant.

Even with his job as a professor at the local community college taking up most of his daytime hours, the machines had come together remarkably quickly-perhaps his work with the finished machine had given him a head start? In between grading papers and preparing lectures, he had worked on the prototypes whenever he had a few minutes to spare. Why, he could barely remember what a full night's sleep felt like. Even though it was the wee hours of the morning and most of the town was asleep, he went about with the testing anyway. There was no way he would be able to sleep with the invention just waiting for him to turn it on and use it.

A pair of protective goggles went over his eyes, and he straightened his lab coat. Pacing back and forth across his mansion's lab, he looked over the inventions. As he picked up a control panel attached to the machines by wires, a look of determination was evident in his features. Standing as far away from the machine as the wires would allow, he flipped the switch that would power on the device.

Instead of a low hum that signaled the warming up of the generator, it kicked into high gear almost instantly. Crackles of electricity could be heard over the surprisingly loud roaring sound it caused. The instant Emmett saw the first spark, he knew something had gone horribly wrong.

With a brilliant white flash and a cracking noise that was louder than anything else combined, the generator burst into flames. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Emmett, raising his hands in a gesture of shock. Theories as to why it happened began running through his head. The amount of power generated may have been too much for the circuits, causing an overload. Maybe the flux capacitor was the problem. Either way, he had to take action quickly.

Although he had installed a small fire extinguisher in his lab some time ago after one lab accident too many, the hope that he could possibly put the fire out himself was slim. Being contained in a room filled with papers and blueprints as well as a few types of flammable chemicals, had caused the flames had spread at a remarkable pace. The fire extinguisher would barely put a damper on it. His best bet would be to notify the fire department and get himself and Copernicus out of harm's way.

He rushed to the nearest telephone on the other side of the room and dialed a number. When he happened to glance back over at the fire, his eyebrows shot up to his forehead and his features contorted into an expression of horror. He knew exactly what was going to happen, but actually seeing it was a shock nonetheless. Both the generator and the capacitor prototype were damaged beyond repair. Even beneath the flames, Emmett saw that they'd become blackened, crumbling shadows of their former selves.

The phone pressed to his ear began ringing. It rang twice, then three times. Nervously winding the telephone cord around his finger, he grew more impatient with every ring. In every second that passed, the fire spread a little bit more. If he didn't leave soon, the fire would spread to the door and escape would become several times more difficult.

After a few moments that felt much longer than they actually were, the phone connected to an operator on the other side. Emmett was vaguely aware of getting a hold of the local fire department, explaining his situation, and giving his address. But even as the man on the other end of the line reassured him that help was on the way, he remained preoccupied.

He was unable to tear his widened eyes away from the fire. The unstoppable, flickering mass of orange and gold shifted closer and closer towards the spot in which he stood, spreading out in all directions.

The simple act of breathing was becoming more difficult by the moment. When his lungs couldn't take much more of the gray clouds of smoke, he began to cough and sprang back into action with a jolt. He slammed the phone onto its receiver right after the fire department had ended the call, ran to the door, and threw it open. Then, he inhaled deeply at the fresh oxygen. With one final glance at the fire that had consumed the very failure of an invention that had caused it, he left the lab behind.

...

Living in one of the more isolated part of town, Emmett did not usually hear the sounds of people talking and cars honking that might have surrounded him if he lived downtown. On a summer night, it would normally be quiet, with the exception of chirping crickets.

Standing outdoors at a safe distance from the house, Emmett could hear Copernicus's soft whimpering from next to him and the whine of a distant fire truck's siren in addition to the usual noises. The dog, though unharmed, was scared out of his wits. Emmett bent over, absentmindedly scratching a spot behind the dog's ears in an attempt to calm him.

His eyes were still fixed on the mansion, though. A soft orange glow coming through the lab window was unmistakably the fire, standing out in the wee hours of the night and casting eerie shadows against the old mansion. The smell of burning wood wafted through the air. Emmett realized he was correct in assuming that the fire had grown too big for him to control. His shoulders slumped forward, and he stopped petting Copernicus to put his head in his hands.

The fact that both he and his loyal pet were safe didn't stop a wave of hopelessness from washing over him, one worse than anything he'd felt in a long time.

...

Saturday, August 12, 1962

...

The Brown mansion, in the end, was just another building; it was merely a pile of wood, glass, and metal that happened to be fashioned in such a way that it was possible for people to inhabit it. It wasn't alive. It was nothing more than a house. Even though it was gone, Emmett knew his life would continue on without it. His rather large garage was separate from the rest of the house and was still standing. It would provide a suitable place to stay, if only until he found somewhere else to reside. Money wasn't a huge issue, either. His late parents had been wealthy, and a good amount of their fortune still resided in a bank. Despite losing a sizable amount of money and being forced to declare bankruptcy, he wouldn't be living on the streets anytime soon.

Although he knew it was just a house and that things could have been far worse than they were, sadness tugged at him anyway. The familiar rooms of the home that had been owned by his family for decades would never be seen again because of one careless mistake on his part. The history, memories in old family photographs on the mantel, his various projects scattered around, and Copernicus's lively barking had kept the atmosphere of loneliness at bay for a long time. The home was far too big for one person, but he kept himself so wrapped up in the noise and clutter and childhood memories that it became only barely noticeable after a while. It was all destroyed now, with the only exceptions being his dog and a few things on the upper floor.

The garage, on the other hand, seemed barren and unfriendly despite being much smaller. It was unbearably stuffy and hot, too. The few items that had survived the flames had been collected into boxes, waiting to be unpacked. There was little else to look at besides open rooms and stark gray walls, he realized as he sat on top of a box in the garage. When the mansion was still standing, it hadn't been much more than a storage area that held whatever didn't fit anywhere else. There was things to do, but he couldn't bring himself to do so much as lift a finger; he remained in the garage by himself, wistfully looking out the window.

The view was distorted by a layer of dust, but the outside world was still visible. When he had entered the garage and looked out the same window before, he could see the mansion. To not have it be there was strange for Emmett. There had been several times in the past couple of weeks since the accident in which for a split second, he would half-expect the old house to still be standing in the same place it had been for years. Then he would remember.

Instead, all that stood was an empty field, with grasses swaying gently in the wind. The fire had been put out, but the damage remained; the house had practically collapsed in on itself because of the lack of support on the bottom floor where the lab was. If one were to look very closely, they'd be able to spot a piece of charred building material or a dead patch of grass. The parts that hadn't been completely reduced to ash had already been cleared away or were out of the view of the window.

A brand-new sign had been planted into the ground closest to the road, its bright red color allowing it to stand out from the grass behind it. In bold, black text read the words "For Sale," followed by the number of acres of land available and a telephone number for people to call if they were interested in the space.

Deciding to sell off the land where the house once stood had been a tough choice. In the end, he had chosen to sell it only a few days after he declared bankruptcy. Sentimental connections to the place aside, he needed the money. Even though some of the family fortune remained and he had a job at the college, there still wouldn't be enough to finance the time machine.

He pushed all thoughts of the machine out of his mind just as quickly as they had entered it. Even the slightest mention of the damn thing would practically leave a bitter taste in his mouth and a sense of exhaustion. Whenever he would try, the only thing he could think of was the fire. He would remember it vividly and wonder what his parents would think of him if they were still around. The disappointment of yet another spectacular failure ate at him as well. Besides, what had the time machine done besides cause trouble, anyway?

The fact that the machine had to be completed or else a paradox would occur kept nagging at the back of his mind, which kept him from scrapping the project entirely. However, there was nothing he wanted to do less at that moment than to pick it up and work on it like nothing had ever happened.

All of his plans had been destroyed. Even with the added advantages of the memories of building the flux capacitor the first time and knowing exactly what to do, it would still most likely take a year or more to get back to where he'd been before the fire. He would have to find out what had gone wrong and possibly search for a new power source.

A thought suddenly occurred to him, filling him instantly with dread. He shot up from his slouched pose. What if the time machine wasn't completed on schedule? Had the fire occurred in the timeline before Marty's visit to 1955 or had something shifted to cause it in only the new timeline? He knew from experience that changing even the most seemingly minor events could have huge effects on a timeline.

What if his research had been set back far enough as to cause a delay in the completion of the project? When the generator had been nearing completion, he had worried about what would happen if the advantages he'd gotten from working on the completed machine caused him to finish ahead of schedule. After some thought, he hadn't seen it a major concern. If, by some miracle, he finished early, he would store it away until the proper date arrived. With the unforeseen delay, he didn't have that option anymore.

There was only one possible way to find out if the timeline had been thrown off balance. As much as he didn't want to think of the invention, he couldn't possibly sit idly by while the timeline had possibly been jeopardized. An idea jumped into his head and began to gnaw at him, and he knew he couldn't wait much longer without knowing. There was one object that could give him anything related to an answer on whether the timeline had been skewed-if it hadn't been burnt, that was.

He stood up suddenly and flipped open the top of the box he'd been previously using as a seat. Rifling through the various knickknacks in the box, he was determined to find the one piece of paper that could possibly ease his mind a bit. It was truly like searching for a needle in a haystack, he mused.

At the bottom of the box, tucked between a necklace that once belonged to his mother and a framed portrait of Albert Einstein, sat the very thing he was looking for-an envelope. As fast as his fingers could move, he pulled out the envelope and opened it to pull out the letter inside.

As he unfolded it, he let out a sigh of relief as he saw words written on it, as real as they'd always been.

That letter was his only clue as to what he was doing right. He had a theory that if he did something that changed the timeline to a degree where the events that led to the writing of said letter were prevented, then it would fade out of existence.

It had not. Everything was intact, right down to the words on the cover that read "Do Not Open Until 1985", an instruction he certainly hadn't adhered to. Marty's warning from 1955 showed no sign of being erased from existence anytime soon. The fire had most likely still happened in the unaltered timeline, he realized. The universe was not in any immediate danger.

Even with the knowledge that the timeline was still pointed in the correct direction, it wasn't easy to keep going forward after everything that happened. But he had an enormous responsibility placed on his shoulders, both to himself and the entire space-time continuum. If the machine was not completed by October 26, 1985, the universe itself had a chance of completely unraveling! He had to deal with that responsibility, and he knew that nothing would ever get done if he refused to put in any work in the next twenty-three years.

He had become intertwined with the space-time continuum and had an amount of power over it that was probably far too much for one person. There was nothing he could do about it except wait out the years and do everything exactly right. It would be difficult, seeing as he still didn't know much about the future and could only guess at the "right" thing to do. Time would continue on its steady path forward and he had to keep moving with it.

Despite the urge to forget his duty and never touch the project again, he knew that wouldn't be possible. Even if it wasn't that day or the next, he vowed to start working again on it someday, when he felt he was ready.

It was most definitely not today. He wasn't yet ready, and needed only a bit more time to recover. First, he had to get out of the garage and restart things again. Over the past few weeks, his life had been hanging in suspended animation. Besides going to work, making sure Copernicus was fed and holding talks with real estate agents over the property sale, he hadn't done much over the past two weeks except sit around in his own self-pity, and he was far from proud of that. Maybe what he needed was a change of scenery to clear his mind, and a walk and a meal outside of the garage might do just that.

He broke the stillness and quiet by walking to another section of the garage. "Come on, Copernicus," he said, motioning to the dog napping on the floor. "Time for a walk."

Said dog lifted his head off the ground the minute the word "walk" was heard. His tongue hung out, making his face resemble a smile, and his tail wagged back and forth. It took him a moment to get up on his feet, longer than it had when he was younger. Although the dog was getting up in years, having stiff joints and gray hairs around his muzzle, he was still there and still possessed a fair amount of energy.

Emmett began walking towards the front door. The afternoon sun cast rays of light into the dingy garage as he threw it open. He looked out, eyes scanning the road and open fields in front of him. After only a few more steps, he shut the door behind him. With Copernicus trotting at his feet, he began to stride forward, trying not to think of his worries and inhaling the fresh outdoor air.


	3. Too Little

...

Monday, July 12, 1976

...

If there was one instruction that Marty had at least gone along with on the day of his sister's tenth birthday, it was to stay out of everyone's way. Of course, Linda was the one who gave it. She'd whispered it to him the day before, going on about how she "didn't want her kid brother to embarrass her at her birthday party."

Marty had rolled his eyes and was a little miffed at first. Did Linda think he was too little to be at the party and that he'd mess everything up or something? She was only two years older than him, after all. There was no reason for her to act so much older. Ultimately, he gave in and followed the instruction. Why would he want to spend all day hanging out with his sister and a bunch of ten-year-old girls, anyway?

From inside his room, he used to be able to hear the loud shouting and giggling coming from Linda and the girls in her class. After a while, though, they tapered off. Once he realized he was in the safe zone, he ventured out of his room and entered the living room.

Marty could see a glimpse of the girls outside in the yard, where he guessed they had gone to play. The living room, where they had once been, didn't look as it normally did. The white walls, carpets, and couches that looked more like a furniture store than something that was actually lived in didn't look quite as clean. Somebody had tracked dirt onto the carpet, and a few throw pillows had been knocked to the ground.

Presents from Linda's classmates wrapped in mostly pink or yellow paper and tied with shiny ribbons or bows had been placed haphazardly in a pile at the foot of the couch, but they weren't the first thing that caught Marty's attention. That honor went to a square, store-bought cake complete with candles that sat on a folding table in front of the same couch. It was practically waiting to be eaten, and mouth watered a little. Maybe he could swipe some chocolate frosting off the side of the cake later when nobody else was looking.

He sat on the couch and put his feet up on it, something his mom never let him do-she claimed it would make the furniture dirty. In his opinion, that was a stupid rule. Why have a couch at all if you couldn't put your feet up?

His mother didn't see him, so Marty didn't move off the couch; he could hear her soft footsteps pacing back and forth in the kitchen. There was nobody else in the room, either, so he was alone. His dad and Linda were outside with the other girls, and Dave-well, he had no idea where Dave was. He was probably up in his own room or something.

Just when he was about to reach the cake, his mom appeared at the entrance to the living room. Startled, he recoiled, putting his hand behind his back in hopes that she hadn't noticed him trying to steal the frosting. She didn't.

She looked more frazzled than usual. Marty could barely notice circles under her eyes that hadn't quite been covered by the makeup she put on every morning. "Marty," she said,"What have I told you about putting your shoes on the couch?"

Marty begrudgingly returned his feet to the carpet. "And have you seen the matches? I must've misplaced them somewhere," she continued.

"No, Mom."

"Well, if you see them, just let me know," she said, before rushing back into the kitchen. A few seconds later, he heard her yell out the back door at the kids outside that it was almost time to eat cake.

Almost immediately after his mother left the room, Marty spotted something interesting tucked under the couch. Right next to a present wrapped in polka-dot paper was the corner of what looked to be a cardboard box. Pulling it out from his spot on the couch, he gasped once he realized what it was. It was none other then the box of matches his mother was looking for. She must have dropped it by accident when she was putting the cake out.

He turned the matchbox over and over in his hands, unsure of what to do with it. His mother had told him to give it to her, but she seemed to have enough things to worry about. He could hear his dad and the girls beginning to make their way inside.

"Mom!" he half-yelled. After a moment, there was no response. He was probably drowned out by the noise of the other kids at the birthday party.

An idea suddenly occurred to him fully realized. Why couldn't he light the candles himself, just to try it? Sure, he'd never even lit one before, as his parents said it was too dangerous for him to try, but he'd watched his parents do it before. How hard could it be?

His hands shook a little from excitement as he opened the box and pulled out a match. Soon, he was going to try something he'd never done before, something he was always told he was "too little" for. Who knew, maybe if he lit the candles all by himself, maybe his parents would let him try other things. Neither they nor his big brother and sister would say he was "too little" anymore.

He rubbed the match against the coarse material on the side to strike it. On the third try, a flame appeared, giving off tiny wisps of smoke. Marty smiled at his success. He knew it couldn't be that difficult. Carefully, he moved the match towards the wick of the nearest candle, tipping it dangerously close to the surface of the cake. He put his other hand around the match to steady it and keep it from falling on the cake. In doing so, his fingers wrapped around the tiny stick so tightly that his knuckles almost turned white.

The flame grew, and while doing so, Marty's finger came just a little too close to the flame. The instant it came in contact with the fire, a bolt of pain ran through him. "Ow!" he yelled as he reflexively jumped, letting the lit match slip through his fingers.

It seemed to fall in slow motion. Marty wasn't quick enough to stop the match from hitting the floor, although it miraculously managed to miss both the cake and the presents. The worst word Marty knew slipped out of his mouth the second it hit the ground.

"Damn!"

Marty was paralyzed with shock as the fire started by the match spread, slowly blackening the parts of white carpet it touched. It took only a second for him to snap back to reality, though. If he didn't do something, the whole house would burn down, and then his family would have nowhere to live!

As fast as he possibly could, he sprinted into the kitchen, shoes squeaking against linoleum. He gestured animatedly while yelling, "Mom! Mom! Fire! Now!"

"What? Where?" came the incredulous reply.

"The rug! I tried to light the birthday candle...and it just caught the rug on fire!"

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, jaw practically dropping to the floor. Standing at the back doorway was his dad, as well as the girls. They, too, looked at each other in confusion and moved closer to see what the fuss was about.

His mother went into action in the blink of an eye, looking for something to douse the flames with. Luckily, there was a large pitcher of water poured from the tap readily waiting on the kitchen table. It was meant to be drunk by the party guests, but plans had changed. Drops of water sloshed out of it as his mom picked it up and ran out of the room with a speed Marty had never seen before.

Right on her heels, Marty followed. Soon, the fire came into view. He swore it had gotten even bigger since the last time he saw it. The light of an angry orange flame danced across the wall, its edges threatening to spread to the nearby couch and presents and turn them to charcoal. His mom gasped at the sight of it. Although he was vaguely aware of several pairs of footsteps behind him, he wasn't paying attention. He could feel his heart beating rapidly without even having to press a finger to his neck.

He watched as his mother dumped the entire contents of the pitcher onto the fire. A sigh of relief escaped his lips when the chilly water and ice cubes that were once frozen in trays effectively put out the fire. However, that relief was short-lived as he turned to notice that the group of people had come in from outside and were gathered around him.

Marty found himself being stared down by every other person in the room. Most of Linda's friends, as well as his dad and Dave (who had reappeared from his room) were only able to look at him with a shocked expression, while a few others had quivering lips and tears forming in the corners of their eyes from the experience. Both his mother and Linda herself, however, fixated on him with matching death glares.

Being anywhere or anytime else in the world would have probably been a better situation than the one he faced in that moment. He could feel his cheeks burn and imagined they were probably as red as a tomato. He glanced at the rug. There was a huge, blackened hole in the center of the white fluff, and it still smoldered a bit. All he could do was gulp in nervous anticipation.

His mom cut in front of one of the younger girls and stopped to stand in front of him. "Are you hurt?" she asked.

Marty shook his head. The place where the match's fire met his hand hurt a little, and would probably leave a blister later, but he wasn't about to tell her that. Having his mom take care of his "boo-boo" was not something he wanted to have done in front of all those people.

Contrary to her earlier panicking, his mother seemed almost eerily calm. Even with her collected exterior, though, Marty could tell that she was trying to restrain herself from yelling. "Well, then to your room, Marty. We'll talk later," she said, bending over a bit to meet him at eye level.

"But Mom, I-"

"Now," she said, cutting off his last-ditch effort to protest, to defend himself. She put a hand on his shoulder, and walked him down the hall to his room. He could feel every eye in the room trained on him, and could hear the girl's hushed whispers.

Marty sulked, shuffling his feet and keeping his eyes on the carpet the entire time of the seemingly endless walk to his bedroom. He wasn't sure why his mom had chosen to wait to punish him and was about to leave him alone with his thoughts. It was probably because she was worried about causing even more of a scene in front of Linda's friends. No matter what the reason was, however, he was still going to sit around while everyone else had cake. He would have nothing to do except listen through the door when his mom recounted the whole experience to his dad and wonder whether she would lecture him or take away his allowance.

As they stood in front of the door leading to his room, his mom suddenly stopped. "Huh," she said, staring off into space. Her brows knit to form a puzzled expression.

"What?"

"I just remembered something, that's all...from a while ago," she said before quickly resuming her firmer tone of voice that she had used earlier. "It's nothing, go to your room. We'll talk about what you did later, after your sister's party is over."

Any wondering about his mom's weird comments that he had were drowned out by disappointment as he walked into his room and flopped onto the bed. As Marty lay there in a sprawled-out position, he wished he hadn't pulled a stunt like that. He didn't realize how bad of an idea that was until it was all over. His parents would probably never let him near a match for the rest of his life. In that moment, while he waited in his room and stared at the ceiling, there was nothing else to do except wait for the inevitable punishment coming his way.


	4. Tales From Space

...

Friday, February 27, 1981

...

The blank paper inserted into the old typewriter seemed to mock George as he stared at it. As he slouched over the desk, he waited for the words to start flowing. They stubbornly refused. He remained devoid of ideas no matter how hard he racked his brain. Something was missing, and he was dying to know what.

He had no idea of how long he'd been sitting around getting nothing done, having lost track of time. It was unusually quiet, as the kids were at school and his wife had gone out for the day, so the circumstances for inspiration to come to him seemed just right. But, for whatever reason, nothing he managed to type down seemed right. The crumpled-up sheets of paper in the trash can could attest to that.

Sitting back in the chair with a sigh and running a hand through his hair, he turned away from the typewriter. He was now facing the wood-paneled walls of the basement, which also doubled as his work place. He would sometimes hole up in there for hours to get things done when he had the time. While he normally didn't mind the usual noise of the upstairs floor, he sometimes needed quiet as well.

George glanced at the neatly organized shelves mounted to the walls, which were filled with cardboard boxes and bins, along with old toys and clothes that the kids had outgrown. Standing out amongst the labelled containers was something that caught his eye-an unmarked trunk resting in a corner, jammed between the shelf it sat on and the ceiling.

'Could it be...? How have I never noticed it before?' he thought, rising from his seat. Grateful for the distraction from his unfinished work, he walked over to the other side of the basement. To get to the small black trunk, he had to reach up from the top shelf and bring it down to the floor.

Sitting on the floor with the trunk in front of him, he undid the tarnished, gold-colored latches on the outside and pushed its top open. It gave in with a loud creak, shouting its age to anyone who would listen. Just as he suspected, it revealed a mess of old papers and notebooks that hadn't seen the light of day in decades. To most people, the trunk and its contents would be worthless, but to George, they were much more valuable.

Years ago, in what seemed more like a lifetime ago, the trunk had sat under his bed in the old room in his parent's house. It held old magazines, scraps of lined paper filled with ideas for stories (most of which were never actually written; he'd sometimes convinced himself they were stupid and gave up) and a notebook, where the actual stories went. Out of everything in the trunk, the notebook held the most memories, so it was the thing George picked up first to look over.

Blowing away a layer of dust that had collected on the notebook's frayed cover, he glanced at it in mild awe. He was sure it had been lost at some point-probably during the move to the house where he currently lived. He was not expecting to find it virtually unchanged from his high school days, when he would carry it to school and write in it whenever he had a spare minute or got bored in class.

Flipping past the black, nondescript cover (it had to be nondescript and indistinguishable from an ordinary school notebook; if its actual purpose was discovered, he would've never heard the end of it from Biff), he began to decipher his own cramped scrawl.

As he read, the stories jogged memories that the years had buried. Soon, he found himself taken back to a time before the kids were born, before he had started writing as a career, and before he'd met Lorraine; back when he was a teenager scared of the world. He imagined being back in the '50s and writing those stories of space aliens and far-off planets all over again.

The contents of the notebook, the earliest of which dated to the middle of his sophomore year, were not quite up to par to his more recent stuff (he'd hoped his skills had improved at least a little after all that time, after all). However, despite the grammar errors and plot holes that stuck out, he still thought of the stories in the notebook like an old friend he hadn't seen in years. They had been his escape from school and bullies, where he could dream up anything he wanted and do whatever he was too afraid to do in the real world. If he'd never started writing in it, he might never have gotten to where he was now.

It wasn't until he reached one particular story that the feeling of secure familiarity and of old memories coming back turned into something else. As he turned to a page dated towards the beginning of his senior year, uneasiness settled into the pit of his stomach.

The story was dated to November 9, 1955, and detailed what had happened on the previous night-George had rushed to write it down as soon as possible so as not to forget a single detail. Ever since then, that night had been an enigma to him. While all the other tales in the book were only from his imagination, that one had actually happened to him-maybe. Although, strangely, to an outsider, that one was no different than anything that would show up in the average science fiction magazine, George thought as he began to read.

The story began by describing a faceless alien in a yellow suit that appeared to stand over his bed in the middle of the night. From his vantage point lying on the bed, the alien looked tall and imposing. He (it?) put a device of some sort around his ears. The loud screeching and squealing noises coming from the device caused George to shoot up from the bed, shocked and confused, and then try to put his hands over his ears. Not that that did any good, though. It almost made the noise louder.

Then, the torturous noise suddenly stopped playing, although its echoes kept ringing in his ears. It spoke for the first time, in a monotonous and distorted voice that caused a chill to run down George's spine. "Silence, earthling! My name is Darth Vader from the planet Vulcan..."

Wait, Darth Vader from the planet Vulcan?

George did a double take at that line, just to make sure he hadn't misread anything. The alien's name and home planet were startlingly familiar. Weren't they from Star Trek and Star Wars? It was too huge a coincidence. Neither of those things existed in the fifties, so how would the alien know about them?

A new level of creepiness that could only have been discovered in hindsight was added to an already strange situation. It gave him a chill, despite the basement not even being that cold. He suddenly had the urge to lock the book back in the trunk, stuff it into a corner of the basement where nobody ever looked, and forget it.

Despite that, he just couldn't do it. How many times did an alien visit one's room in a lifetime? There was something fascinating about it. He had to finish the story to see if there were any more answers he'd missed. If he put the book down now, he would be left to endlessly speculate about it; not knowing was scarier than knowing.

George forced himself to look down at the page and keep reading. He got to the part where Vader told him that if he didn't take Lorraine to the dance, he'd melt his brain; and then proceeded to chloroform him (if aliens even used chloroform, that is; maybe he had used an extraterrestrial equivalent that had a similar effect). In hindsight, although he'd been frozen in fear when it actually happened, it just seemed silly when being read on a piece of paper. Why would an alien travel all the way from whatever planet it lived on just to force some teenager to take a girl to a dance? Was that their idea of a joke?

To this day, he was still unsure about exactly what had happened on that fateful night. Soon after it happened, he found himself considering different ways to explain the alien visit. He remembered wondering if the whole thing was just a prank someone from school played on him, or maybe a very vivid dream. If it was the former, then how did he get his hands on all those weird machines that resembled nothing George had ever seen before, and if it was the latter, what could explain the very real aftereffects of the chloroform he'd faced?

Even though the whole experience being caused by real, live aliens was not the most plausible explanation, there were little signs everywhere that didn't add up to a more reasonable one- the technology, the chloroform, and names from movies and shows that didn't exist yet. Besides, the idea of aliens living somewhere and watching over the lives of Earth people was a much more interesting idea than any old prank.

George continued reading; nearing the end. The last scene, written a few days later after he came home that night, was at the school dance, while he was dancing with Lorraine. Some jerk had come up to her and cut in between them, and George had let him; once again ending up on the dance floor by himself. He remembered being dejected and torn over whether or not to turn around and go back to her. When they were on the floor together, he felt as if he was on top of the world; but was his one moment of bravery a fluke?

As he stalled, wanting desperately to go back but unsure of how to do so, he caught sight of Calvin, or Marty, Klein onstage, hunched over the guitar as the other musicians looked on worriedly. Even though the crowd of other teens obscured part of his vision, and the lighting was dim, he swore that in that moment, he could just make out Marty's hand becoming transparent. He could look straight through his hand and at his face, which wore a look of horror.

While George had no idea what was happening, he guessed that maybe it had something to do with him leaving Lorraine, who he could now hear calling his name. George recalled turning around and feeling a surge of hope. Lorraine was definitely not enjoying herself with that other guy; and if he could stand up to someone once, why not twice? Because of both her and Marty, who's life might've been in danger, he strode back to them and pushed the redhead away from Lorraine. "Excuse me," he said, and turned back to face her.

The next time he glanced at Marty, he was fully intact and seemed to be brimming with energy.

In that moment, when Marty Klein literally almost vanished before his eyes, a thought wandered into his mind. Maybe Marty was the alien all along and was only disguising himself as a human. If the alien needed him and Lorraine to get together or else he would die (he wasn't quite sure how that worked exactly, but whatever), it would sure explain why he'd kept following George around. He was a little unsure of Marty at first; he wouldn't leave George alone and didn't seem to know what was going on half the time.

Whether Marty Klein really was an alien or just some kid that was in the center of a few coincidences, George would never know. Nobody, not even his supposed uncle, ever heard a word from him again after the night of the dance. He left just as suddenly as he came. There was no way to ever find out the truth about what happened. All he could do was try to fill in the blanks himself.

Fill in the blanks...

While he would never know the truth, he could write something about it. He could come up with suitable answers to the lingering questions he still had. While they wouldn't be as good as the real answers, maybe he could placate his mind a bit.

It occurred to him that what happened could make a great story, provided a few tweaks were made from the old, original story written years ago. He'd have to change a few names, make up some things about the aliens that he would never know in real life, and brand the whole thing under the guise of fiction (it wasn't as if he could go around telling people aliens had really visited Earth, after all). The real experience would be interesting to write about, that was for sure.

George suddenly stood up, his back aching from sitting hunched over on the floor for some time. Leaving the open trunk on the floor, he put the open notebook at his desk and sat at down at the typewriter with a new zeal. His mind was refreshed and raced with new ideas, and his fingers practically itched to type them down. The clicking and clacking of keys soon filled the room as a new story began to take form and a title came to mind.

"A Match Made in Space, written by George McFly..."


	5. Summer Days, Part 1

**A/N: The premise of this one has been done a million times, but whatever. I don't think this story would feel complete unless I wrote this. Also,I split this oneshot due to length. The next update will actually be the second half of this one.**

...

Tuesday, August 24, 1982

...

Slowly but surely, the inevitable signs were coming that signaled a change in the air. The sun seemed to go down a little earlier each day. Schedules and lists of school supplies to get had already been sent out to parents. The nights were starting to become just a little cooler. No matter how hard Marty tried to ignore those signs appearing everywhere, summer would soon be coming to a close.

To him, the days were still as hot and muggy as ever, and he still had a couple of weeks left before he had to enter high school for the first time, so it was technically still summer. He planned on enjoying the little time he had left. That time would probably consist of doing the same thing he had for the past few months-not much, that was.

The long months that had seemed endless at first had mostly been spent sleeping in late, hanging out with his friends at the arcade, and riding his new skateboard, a present for his 14th birthday, around Hill Valley. After so many days going up and down the same streets, he had grown to know the town like the back of his hand. He knew every shortcut through every fence, every house that had big dogs that liked to chase kids (he avoided those places), and every restaurant, store or gas station in the area.

As the weeks wore on, he began to notice more kids out on the streets than usual, ranging from elementary to high school-aged. Some rode bikes or skateboards, others threw a ball back and forth, and others still idled outside the gas station or convenience stores, with a few of the older teens smoking packs of cigarettes or looking for trouble. He suspected that some of them didn't quite know what to do with themselves after the initial relief of not having to be at school day after day had passed. Marty himself was no exception, but he'd take being a little bored over returning to the endless assignments and condescending teachers that awaited him in school.

On one particularly hot day in August, Marty found himself getting winded earlier than usual while speeding his board down the familiar JFK Drive. That was probably due to the weather-the air held an almost soupy quality, and the sun's heat bored down from its place in the cloudless blue sky. Marty found himself only wanting to get away from the heat, regretting going outside at all that day. Instead of stopping the board and resting, he brushed his foot against the pavement, making it go faster.

While Marty coasted down the road, the Burger King, a place he went to every so often when he was nearby and needed a quick lunch, came into view. Perfect, he thought. He had a few quarters in his pocket, just enough to grab a soda and sit around in the cool, air-conditioned restaurant. After that, he wasn't sure what else to do-all his friends seemed to be on vacation or doing something else that day, and it was too hot out to do anything else. This day was sure turning into a dud, he thought. Maybe he would go home early that day, even though it was something he didn't normally do. As long as he came home by dinnertime (and not in a police car), his parents didn't mind him staying out.

Approaching the edge of the Burger King's parking lot, Marty caught sight of something that made him stare in disbelief. A group of four high school guys were sitting around in the bed of a pickup truck not too far from the restaurant, talking loudly. Even from a few feet away, he could pick up a few shouts and laughs from them. While that wasn't an unusual sight in and of itself, it was a fifth kid sitting in the corner that caught his attention.

As he drew closer to the truck, he recognized the kid as Doug Needles, of all people. As they were in the same grade at school, he had a few classes with him here and there over the years. They couldn't exactly be called friends, but they talked every once in a while. Needles always seemed to be up for some kind of race or and Marty was usually the guy he picked to compete against. Although he had gotten in trouble at least one time from those stunts, he was not one to refuse them.

His hanging out with high schoolers, let alone ones who were old enough to drive that truck, was a puzzle unto itself. After all, he knew many high schoolers regarded junior high students as little kids that were beneath them, despite the fact that they were only a few years older.

That made him wonder exactly how Needles had convinced high schoolers, let alone ones old to drive, to let him, an eighth-grader, into their hangout. Despite the fact that he would be a freshman himself come September didn't matter much- whether in sixth grade or eighth, few junior high kids achieved that elusive status of being cool enough to hang around high schoolers.

As he reached the truck, a voice called from behind him. "Hey! McFly!"

Marty swore he heard Needles whispering to the high schoolers. It sounded something along the lines of "Hey, watch this. Watch what this guy is gonna do." It was hard to make out, but it still sent up red flags everywhere in his mind. That is, if what he was saying was about him.

"What do you want, Needles?" Marty replied anyway, trying to seem nonchalant.

A glint appeared in his eye; the kind one got when they wanted trouble. He grinned and said, "Not much, just something I was thinkin' about with these guys," he said, motioning to the older teens. "I want a dare."

"That's all you ever want."

If Needles didn't like Marty's comment, he didn't show it; simply pretending he hadn't heard anything. "Whatever. You up to it or not?"

"Maybe. What is it?"

"We were talking about going into Crazy Doc Brown's house. Y'know, to see just what he's got in there. Although you could do the job just as well."

Marty turned to look at the garage, which was not too far from the parking lot. He doubted they were breaking in just to see the place but didn't say anything.

Although it wasn't at the moment, it wasn't an unusual sight to see the garage-turned house covered in TP or eggs. The owner's reputation probably was the cause of that. Ever since the ancient days of when their parents were kids, rumors had been circulating about the man who lived alone in a garage and worked on experiments all day. The possibilities were endless: Dr. Brown had burned his own mansion down to get insurance money. Dr. Brown helped make the atomic bomb. Dr. Brown kidnapped anyone who tried to break into his lab and used them in terrible experiments. Dr. Brown was the one who broke the clock tower with some weird experiment.

Although most of them undoubtedly fake, there was still a sense of mystery about the man. For all the infamy and rumors that surrounded the place where he lived, no kid had ever gone inside and lived to tell the tale. Needles's attempt to make him go in was truly the ultimate dare.

"I don't know, what if he finds out I'm in there?," he said.

"Oh, come on, McFly, live a little. My cousin here's got this set of wheels. If something happens, we'll be out of there, just like that," replied Needles, snapping his fingers.

So one of the high schoolers was Needles's cousin, apparently. That explained a lot, thought Marty, before wondering about what to do about the dare. He knew it was a bad idea, but he wasn't about to risk looking like a wimp in front of the others.

"Fine, but hurry it up," said Marty, looking Needles in the eyes after only a moment's pause. "I'm in."

...

Marty kicked open the chain-link gate surrounding the old garage, and strode up the sidewalk which had long since been overgrown with weeds.

Staring at the entrance, he gulped, trying to control the butterflies in his stomach that had appeared out of nowhere. He wasn't scared, of course, and didn't really believe in all the silly stories he'd heard over the years. There was no reason why he should be nervous.

Deep down, he knew most of those tales were about as real as ghosts or monsters under the bed. They were only stories little kids told to scare each other. But even the stories of a mad scientist had to come from somewhere. He had walked into the Burger King more than once only to notice some weird smell or smoke coming from the direction of the garage.

What if he really was dangerous?

Marty was beginning to have second thoughts. He turned back and stared at the others, trying to keep a scared expression off his face.

"Well? What're you waiting for?" Needles yelled. The bored-looking high schoolers, standing in a cluster a few feet away, turned away from him and started talking to each other. Marty had lost their attention.

No. That couldn't happen. He wasn't going to ruin this because of some dumb kiddie stories. 'Come on, McFly,' he thought to himself. 'Are you chicken?'

That one word, even when thought to himself, was enough to prod him go through with it. It always was. Besides, he was kind of curious as to what was in there that could cause so many rumors and stories. If he chickened out now, he would never get to see what was inside and would look like an idiot to the guys outside.

"Nothing," he replied back. Turning around and gathering every bit of courage he could muster, he opened the garage door that Dr. Brown had apparently forgotten to lock. 'For a scientist, he sure doesn't seem very smart,' he thought, trying to calm his nerves. He stepped inside the previously unknown, forbidden territory.

"Whoa," he said upon first entering the garage, looking around at his surroundings. He wasn't sure what to expect when he first walked in, but now that he'd seen it, he realized it looked more or less how a stereotypical mad scientist's lab should look.

It was a dump. Boxes were piled almost to the ceiling in some places, and everything from blueprints to food wrappers were strewn across the floor and on an unmade cot in a corner. There were machines everywhere-piled on tables and countertops, stuffed inside the cardboard boxes, and lying out in the open. Wherever Marty looked, there were inventions scattered everywhere. What any of them did, he had no clue.

If he hadn't known differently, he would assume nobody had lived there in years. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, and the garage was dim, with its windows covered up with boards or curtains. The only light source came from the open door behind him.

It looked like a place to get lost in, a place one could spend hours in and still not have seen everything in it. Although Marty was sure as hell not going to do so. He had fulfilled the dare and was going to leave as soon as he could. If he got caught, he might be arrested for breaking in or something.

"There. You guys happy now?" he exclaimed, turning to face Needles and the high schoolers. He bet they wouldn't think of him as a little junior high kid anymore, after doing the very thing that, as far as he knew, nobody had ever done before. Instead of the reaction he was hoping for, he was surprised to discover that they weren't there at all. Instead, he saw them sprinting to the edge of the parking lot and jumping into the bed and interior of the waiting pickup truck. Its engine roared, and it sped off, leaving only a trail of exhaust and dust in its wake.

For a split second, Marty had no idea what was going on or why they had panicked all of a sudden. Then, out of the corner of his eye, an answer came in the form of a white van moving around the corner. As it entered the parking lot, he could make out the words printed on the side: Dr. E. Brown Scientific Enterprises.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Those bastards had dared him to break in the garage and then ditched him the minute they saw the van! Maybe they had even known Dr. Brown was coming and had set him up just to get him in trouble. Although he was silently fuming, he quickly realized he couldn't afford to waste time thinking about them. With the high schoolers having driven off, there was nobody else to blame for the break-in but himself. He'd be toast if the scientist found him just standing inside the door of the garage.

Because of that, there was only one thing he could do-avoid being found at all. Marty reflexively shut the door and stood with his back to it, contemplating his options and listening to the quickening throb of his heartbeat. There was no way he could make it out the front door in time without being seen; the van was already too close by for that. He supposed he could hide under a table or something, but the risk of Dr. Brown spotting him was way too high. Besides, he'd have to wait for God knows how long under there until he left again.

Craning his head over the boxes and tables and searching for another plan, he spotted a back door on the opposite end of the garage. 'Perfect,' he thought. He had a way out now; all he had to do was escape through the back door before Dr. Brown returned to the garage.

He began to rush forward, dodging machines, power tools, and random spare parts balanced precariously on tables and cabinets. 'Come on,' he thought. 'Only a few more steps to go, and then I'm home free.'

He was nearing the doorway and reaching out for the knob when several things happened at once to ruin his entire plan. First, Marty wasn't able to escape in time and was still in the garage when Dr. Brown opened the front door on the other side of the place. Second, the sound of the door swinging open startled Marty. He was caught off guard, and ended up tripping over a soda can that had been left on the floor. Last, he reached out to a nearby folding table with yet another machine on it to break his fall. The cheap table buckled under the weight.

Although Marty managed to keep himself from falling flat on his face, neither the table nor the machine were so lucky. Both went down with a spectacular crashing sound as they hit the floor.

"Hey! You!" came a voice from behind him. 'Shit,' Marty thought, wincing and cursing his own carelessness. It would've been better if he hadn't taken that stupid dare at all. "Come out where I can see you," the voice continued.

Marty stood up and turned around slowly to face Dr. Brown himself. He put his hands up in the air as if he was about to be arrested. With all the trouble he'd gotten himself into, he might as well be. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, speechless, with a gaping mouth and wide, scared eyes that darted from one direction to the other. Quickly picking up the machine and propping up the table, his panic increased as he noted the broken glass on the outside of the machine. "It's broken," he mumbled to himself, although Brown had unfortunately managed to hear it. He had seen everything.

"What do you think you're doing, breaking into my home and destroying my invention?" said Dr. Brown as he pointed an accusing finger in his direction. His eyes bored into Marty with intensity. The tall man in his sixties somehow managed to look intimidating and silly at the same time, with his wild white hair that stuck out in every direction and a lab coat singed and stained in a few places. A gray sheepdog happily trotted in from behind him, lessening the intimidating factor a bit.

"Look, I swear I didn't break it on purpose. I fell and knocked it over by accident!" said Marty quickly, almost stumbling over his words.

Dr. Brown seemed to consider it for a moment as the dog went up to Marty as if to investigate the new person. Marty ignored it; who knew if stopping to pet him would make the scientist even angrier.

"Fine, but that still doesn't explain why you broke in," he said, putting a hand on his chin.

Marty sighed. He was caught now; there was no point in lying about it. " I was at the Burger King, and some guys there dared me to go in. But they're gone now. I wasn't gonna mess any of your stuff up. I'm really sorry." He was telling the whole truth; he really did regret going in there and breaking his machine. Mad scientist or not, that thing had probably taken forever to make, and he'd trashed it in less than a second.

"Hmm. What's you're name?" replied Brown, his harsh tone softening. The way he was looking at Marty, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with him yet, did nothing to ease Marty's panic.

"Please don't call the cops or my parents or something. I'll fix your machine-thing, and then I'll leave you alone," he pleaded. Getting arrested was not on his plan for the day, and asking his parents to pay for it was out of the question. He couldn't pay it himself, either-it wasn't like he had a ton of cash lying around.

Dr. Brown mulled it over."That would be fine; I suppose I won't call the police. But if you're going to be working with me, I need to know your name," he said, staring at Marty.

"It's Marty McFly," replied the boy, still unsure as to whether Brown was being sincere or not. It occurred to him that he could call the cops on him right then and there. He probably shouldn't have told him anything at all.

Dr. Brown's eyes widened, and he stared down at Marty for a few seconds. There was an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air as Marty broke eye contact, flitting his eyes away from the strange reaction.

"So I guess I'll swing by here tomorrow, help fix the machine, and then I'll leave you alone," he said, breaking the silence. He still would rather go home afterwards than do the job that day. Even as the words escaped his mouth, he was already unsure. He didn't know the first thing about fixing machines. What if he only made things worse? What if the machine was dangerous?

He was too late to backtrack, though, already too late to leave right then and there and try to forget the whole encounter. Dr. Brown, having composed himself once again, was already nodding in agreement. "That seems fair. You help me in exchange for letting this incident stay our little secret," he said.

"Yeah," said Marty, as he opened the door. As he left the garage and began to skateboard towards home, he shook his head and wondered just what he'd gotten himself into.


	6. Summer Days, Part 2

...

Wednesday, August 25th, 1982

...

"Hello? Dr. Brown? Anyone in there?"

Marty's almost-yells were accompanied by the sound of him knocking on the front door of Dr. Brown's garage for the third time on that late afternoon, skateboard in hand. Once again, there was no response, so Marty rolled his eyes in annoyance.

He turned around to face away from the door and towards the fast-food joints and tiny stores, wondering whether or not to just leave. Suddenly, he could hear the door whipping open from behind him, quickly putting that question to rest. Standing in the doorway was Dr. Brown. "Ah! Marty, come in. Follow me," he said, welcoming him into the garage as if he was his buddy and not the kid who had broken into his house yesterday.

The scientist quickly entered the garage, expertly maneuvering around the boxes and tables as he'd probably done many times before. Marty trailed after him, eyes wandering around his surroundings but trying not to touch anything. He hadn't gotten more than a quick glance at the place the day before, and there was no way he'd seen everything there was to see.

As Dr. Brown led him out of the living space Marty had seen yesterday and into an unfamiliar room, Marty felt a mix of conflicting emotions. Among the guilt, vague suspiciousness (walking into a strange man's home alone was reason enough to feel as such; volunteering to do so was probably not the best idea in hindsight), and wondering what would happen if Needles or the guys from school knew he was spending the day with the supposedly crazy scientist, there was a curiosity there as well.

There was probably nobody but Brown himself that had seen the inside of the garage in years. All the rumors and mystery that surrounded the place and the man who owned it proved the place had something interesting in it. Marty sort of wanted to look inside the boxes, find out what the machines did, and ask the doctor himself about what was true and what was just a story made up by some kid. If he got the courage, he just might do that. It was an opportunity to find that out and do something exciting over the summer. After all, if he was going to be stuck in the garage for a few hours, he might as well make the best of it.

Dr. Brown stopped in front of a small section of the garage that Marty presumed to be some kind of laboratory. Somehow, he'd managed to stuff spare parts, tools, drawings, and even more inventions into a few shelves and tables. Marty wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of what he guessed was from some kind of chemical.

Even more strange than the unorganized rows of devices was what rested on a nearby wall-clocks. Not just a few, but a collection of them that almost covered the wall, ticking in perfect unison to form an eerie heartbeat. There were big clocks, small clocks, old ones, and new ones. He shook his head. It was just one more thing he'd have to ask Brown about.

Sitting on a worn, scratched work table sat a lone machine which Marty recognized as the one he'd broken. He looked up at Dr. Brown.

"Um...so, what is it?"

"Oh, this thing?" Dr. Brown said, laying a hand on top of the metal machine. "Just an little side project I worked on a few years ago to pass the time. It's a handy device that toasts toast with twice the speed of the average commercial toaster, launches it out of the main device and onto a plate, and deposits a specific amount of butter and jam on top."

"Whoa," Marty mumbled, staring at the machine. Now that he'd gotten a closer look at it, he saw a normal toaster somewhere inside the tangle of wires and tarnished metal. The wires extended upwards from the toaster and then off to the side, having been wrapped around some kind of metal rod and were still visible through the glass casing that surrounded it. At the end of that was a place to insert the toppings that would be put on the toast. Marty could still see a web of tiny cracks running across the surface of the glass from where it had fell onto the cement floor below.

Dr. Brown picked up the machine and looked it over, turning it around in his hands and inspecting its every nook and cranny as Marty looked over his shoulder. "The damage here isn't too severe. We'll just have to replace the glass casing and repair any internal circuitry that was damaged. It'll take an hour or two, tops, to make it as good as new. Have you ever attempted anything like this, Marty?" he asked.

"Not really," he admitted.

"Well, now's as good a time as any to learn. Let's get started."

Dr. Brown picked up a screwdriver off one of the tables and handed it to Marty, with instructions to use it to take off the bottom of the machine to reveal the wiring inside. That was easy enough, Marty supposed. As he flipped the machine over and began to twist out the screws, he said, "Listen, I'm still sorry about...the stuff from yesterday."

"Don't worry about it. What you did was wrong, but I've had similar incidents with children your age, which was why I behaved rather harshly towards you yesterday. None of those kids offered to fix their mistake."

Marty nodded, not expecting the answer he got. After a whole childhood's worth of rumors and Brown's yelling from yesterday, he hadn't expected to be forgiven so easily. It was surprising that he hadn't called the police the second he revealed his full name, or that he'd let him anywhere near the garage again. Slightly more confident that he wasn't going to rat him out (or do something worse), Marty finally asked, "So what does all this stuff do?"

"Most of these are smaller inventions, much like this toaster. They're simply projects I do to help with things around here that I often forget about. Look at that one," he said, pointing to one of the bigger ones sitting on a table in the corner. "That one's designed to prepare and deposit Einstein's food into a bowl on a scheduled time scale."

"Einstein?"

"My canine companion."

So that was the sheepdog Marty had seen the other day. He didn't see him anywhere, but he assumed the dog was somewhere in the garage. He'd never heard of naming a dog Einstein before, but it was an okay name, he guessed.

"So, the next step in the process is to replace the wire damaged in the collision. See?" said Dr. Brown, interrupting his thoughts and pointing to one of the exposed wires that Marty had uncovered. "All you need to do is remove this wire here and I will replace it. There should be a spare one around somewhere; if only I remembered where I put it..."

"You're really gonna let me do this?"

"Of course," he said as he searched for the replacement. "Why not?"

"Well...I...never mind," he said, beginning to remove the wire and hoping he wouldn't screw it up even more.

...

Before long, the glass and internal wiring had been fixed. The toaster probably looked just as it had before it was broken (maybe even a little better; its tarnished metal surfaces had been polished and shined just a little brighter.

"I guess we did it," said Marty. The machine had once again been placed on the work table, where both Dr. Brown and him eyed it. Marty was surprised that the visit to the garage had been as easy as it was. Any nervousness he had still held had long since fizzled out. The old scientist wasn't that bad. A little weird, maybe, but not bad, he thought. After actually meeting the man, Marty didn't see him as the type of person to actually be harmful.

"We sure did," said Dr. Brown as he began pacing back and forth to what Marty guessed was the "kitchen" part of the garage. When he returned, there was a stick of butter and a glass jar of jam in his arms, which were quickly opened and loaded into the top of the machine. He then rushed over to the nearest outlet and plugged in the machine.

"All right, let's test this baby. At the count of three, Marty, turn on the power button. In three...two...one...now!"

Marty pressed the power button and watched as the toast began to heat up. For a moment, it was silent, with the exception of the quiet-but-growing-louder whirring of the machine. The tension was broken by the toast flipping over in the machine.

Marty was impressed-he never thought toast could cook that fast before.

After a few more seconds, the piece of toast launched into the air and landed directly on its target, the plate. It was golden brown and definitely toasted, but not burnt and black. Marty could see the smile on Dr. Brown's face.

A square of butter plopped onto the toast, followed by the jam. The sticky, purple stuff landed on the toast...at first. It simply never stopped, even after the toast was covered in it. A thick stream of jam poured onto the plate, overflowing it at a faster and faster rate. Just as it threatened to spill over the plate's rim, Marty spoke up. "Uh...is it supposed to do that?," he asked uncertainly.

Dr. Brown's smile fell. "Oh! Never mind that, now. It's simply a minor malfunction," he said, pulling the plug of the device. The hums and whirring of the machine were cut off, and the jam stopped falling onto the plate below. He then picked up the plate and walked over with it to a little sink nearby that was already filled with dishes. Marty could see him toss it into the sink, toast and all. When he returned, he remarked that,"It's nothing. Probably just a bug in the wiring somewhere."

Marty nervously scratched the back of his head. "It's probably something I did. I'm really not good with this stuff. Hell, I get mostly Ds in my science classes."

"Nonsense, Marty," he replied. "Even if you did cause the bug, which may or may not have happened, I've made mistakes several times in the past as well. Look at these machines. All of them possessed flaws when I first tested them, and most of them were outright failures!"

Still curious about the various devices he'd heard so much about, Marty asked,"Then why do you keep making 'em?"

Dr. Brown picked up the toaster and started fiddling with the inner wiring of the machine, talking all the while. "I enjoy it, failures and all. All you have to do is fix it and keep going, which I'm currently doing with the toaster here. Besides, it's a rather nice way to pass the time. Who knows, maybe something I make will work one day, and I could use it to make history, to improve the lives of other humans! If I quit now, it wouldn't be the same. Don't you have something like that?"

"I dunno about the 'improving the lives of other humans' stuff, but sure, I guess I do," said Marty, realizing he had something in common with Dr. Brown, of all people. When he got the rare chance to play music on a borrowed guitar, he had his fair share of mistakes that made him want to throw the instrument on the ground and walk away. He knew exactly how frustrating it was, and could imagine what the older man felt as well.

"There! That should do it," he said, interrupting Marty's thoughts and finishing the fix in record time. He placed the toaster upright on the table. There was no need to replace the butter or jam, as they were still in the machine, but a new piece of bread and a clean plate were quickly provided by Dr. Brown. "Plug that in, Marty, and then the machine will be properly prepared for its second test. "

Marty did as he was told. Soon, the room was once again humming with the familiar sound of the device on the table. Just as it had the time before, a perfectly toasted piece of bread was launched out of the toaster and onto the plate in under a minute. That time, however, the jam did not overflow after the square of butter had appeared on the toast. Only a small amount was there.

"Yes! It works!" exclaimed Dr. Brown. He jumped into the air a little while Marty watched on, confused by his sudden outburst. Nevertheless, a smile soon crept onto his face. The energy was infectious.

"Yeah. I guess it does," he said. For the first time, he realized that he was actually having fun.

It occurred to him that it was probably time for him to go, as he'd fulfilled his end of the deal. Strangely, he didn't want to. When he first entered the garage, he was torn between getting in and out as fast as he could and staying to explore. Now, he wanted to stay longer. Dr. Brown actually seemed like a really interesting guy, and Marty still wanted to know more about him and the cool stuff at his place (he never even found out what those clocks were for). Brown didn't seem at all like the evil mad scientist he'd heard about when he was a kid. In fact, he seemed nicer to him than most adults; never talking down to him or looking down their noses at him and complaining about his "attitude problem" like most of his teachers did. So what if he showed up late to school every once in a while, it wasn't like they had to...

Late. He was gonna be late getting home! A quick glance at the myriad of clocks on the wall told him that it was already after five o' clock. Despite being surrounded by clocks, he had somehow still managed to lose track of time. Even if he car-surfed the entire way home on his skateboard, which he had left just inside the garage door, he still wouldn't make it back in time.

"Listen, I have to go. I'm late back at home," he said, regretting that he hadn't shown up at the garage earlier. He began making his way to the door, Dr. Brown following behind.

"Oh. Well, you have fulfilled your part of the bargain, so I suppose you are free to go," he said, not making eye contact. Marty thought he sensed a bit of disappointment in his tone; and he could guess why it was there. It must get lonely living in a little garage by yourself and having everybody think you're crazy. Maybe that was why he'd been so friendly to Marty.

Just after he opened the front door, Marty stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Dr. Brown. Leaning against the open door frame, he asked, "Would you mind...Doc...if I came back here to visit some other day?"

"No," he replied in a hushed tone, smiling slightly. "I wouldn't mind that at all."


	7. Floating on Cloud Nine

...

Friday, October 5, 1984

...

"One, two, three, go!"

Once Marty had given the count-off, the band instantly began playing. As soon as he heard the opening riffs, he knew that today had been a good day. His ears rang with the squeals of his guitar, as well as the bass and drums pounding away behind him. He quickly began to lose himself in the song, moving along to the rhythm and playing his own musical instrument with a newfound energy. It was their last song of the day that they'd be able to play before they went home, so they might as well make it count.

Sure, the four inexperienced band members that consisted of Marty and his friends would occasionally play a wrong note or rhythm, but it didn't matter at the moment. Their songs were starting to come together more and more, forming into something that they wouldn't mind sharing with others.

They were definitely doing better than the first time they'd played, which was right after they got bored on a lazy, rainy Saturday and decided to start a band on a random whim. That was for sure. Somewhere along the line, the very idea of the band, named "The Pinheads," had gone from something to occupy time to something that they could make it to the big time with.

If Marty imagined hard enough, he could almost imagine that he was playing to a real audience. He could picture a mass of people screaming and waving their hands in the air, not wanting to miss a second of the music. Of course, it was only a fantasy. None of them had ever played for an audience before. Instead of facing huge crowds, they played to an empty room; instead of flashing strobe lights, there were only fluorescent lights mounted into the ceiling that made everything look a bit harsher. A few sad, broken-down bass drums and once-gleaming horns that now sported tarnished brass stared back at them.

For the first minute or so of the song, Marty was absorbed in plucking at the strings of the guitar. That only changed when he saw the back of someone's head out of the corner of his eye. The person was standing outside the music room door, which was unusual in and of itself. In the few times the band had practiced in there, they had never seen anybody else enter the room. The music room seemed to be abandoned and forgotten. Even the school band had moved on to a larger room, leaving the other classroom to become a glorified storage area. It was the reason why the music teacher had allowed them to practice in there during their study hall at the end of the day.

He continued to play, but the song no longer had his full attention. He kept an eye on the person outside the door to see who she was or if she would walk away. She was a girl, that much Marty could tell from the cheerleader uniform and teased curls of hair. He could make out a face peeking into the tiny window in the door, but he still wasn't close enough to see who she was. All he knew was that she didn't continue walking away. Was the girl staying to watch them?

Before long, the band played the ending of the of the song. After the last note had been played, the sound of the guitars echoed around the room for a few seconds after the true ending. Marty turned around to the band members standing behind him and said "Good job, guys." The bassist reached forward and high-fived him.

The school bell that signaled the end of classes rang out. Waves of students poured out of classrooms, talking and stopping at their lockers before they left for the day in cars or busses. From inside the music room, their talking was muffled to a dull roar-there were never many kids in that wing of the school.

The band members began making small talk as they packed up their instruments into dusty brown cases (or, in one person's case, stuffing drumsticks into his backpack). Marty tried to keep up with the conversations around him as he put his own guitar away, but his thoughts kept wandering to the girl staring through the door. When he left to go to his locker, would she still be there or would she have been swept away by the mass of people? He wanted to ask the others about her to see if they knew her, but when he glanced at the door again, she was gone.

One by one, his friends headed to the door, instrument cases and schoolbooks in tow, and went their separate ways. Marty followed suit. After a quick "See you later," he left as well. As he walked down the hallway and made a beeline to his locker, he glanced around. The halls were now much less crowded, as most people had already left and only a few of were still loitering around outside their lockers.

Finally, he reached his locker. While he was putting in the combination, opening the rusted metal door, and haphazardly stuffing textbooks in a pile at the bottom of the locker, he didn't notice the sound of shoes clacking on the floor from behind. It wasn't until Marty slammed the locker door shut that he became aware of a nearby presence.

When he closed the door, a face was revealed. The first thing he noticed was a pair of wide brown eyes staring into him. He flinched a little, startled, until he realized what was going on. There was a girl standing a few feet away from him and leaning against a row of lockers. Even though he still couldn't remember her name, with one look at her face and hair, Marty knew that he'd seen her before-only a few moments ago, in fact. That same face had been looking in the window during his band practice.

"Did I scare you?" she asked.

Marty quickly shook his head. "No. I'm fine. Why would I be scared?"

"You jumped half a foot when you saw me!"

"I did not. Anyway, I'm fine," he repeated.

"I know I probably seem really weird to you. You know, snooping on your band practice and everything. I, well, just heard you playing from down the hall and stopped to listen. I didn't want to come in interrupt you guys in the middle of the song. You're Marty, right?" the girl said.

At some point, something clicked in Marty's mind. He'd seen her around before. They'd never talked or anything, but he remembered seeing her sitting across the room from him in science class last year. Her name was Jennifer, and she was a junior like him. She was one of the popular cheerleader types that dated equally popular guys and went everywhere in little groups. Seeing one of them alone was an unusual sight in itself. What exactly was a pretty girl like her doing following him around and coming up to talk to him?

No matter the reason, he sure as hell wasn't going to pass up that opportunity. He could stay and talk to her as long as he wanted, seeing as he went to and from school on his skateboard and had no bus to catch. How had he gotten so lucky? If his memory was correct, she was single, too!

"It's cool," he replied. "And, yeah, I'm Marty. Marty McFly. And you're Jennifer?"

"That's me. Anyway, was that your band playing in there?"

"Yup. We're the Pinheads."

"Have you ever played anywhere before?"

Marty considered saying yes to impress her, but realized there was no point to lying. He'd feel guilty about it. Besides, she'd never seen them play anywhere-not at dances, competitions, clubs, or anywhere else. There was no way she would believe him. "The thing is...we've never played to an audience before. You're the first," he said sheepishly, reaching up to scratch the back of his head.

"Well, you should. I don't know that much about rock and roll, but it sounded really good in there to me."

"You think so?" he said, just as an idea formed in his mind. "Actually, I still have my guitar with me. If you like it, I could show you how to play."

"I'd love to. Nobody will notice us if we go back into the music room, right? My dad won't care if I'm a few minutes late from school."

"Sure, let's go."

The hall was empty save for a lone janitor mopping the floor, but he didn't question them and simply stared when Marty and Jennifer disappeared into the empty music room.

As Marty laid the case on the ground and took out the guitar inside, his nervousness was replaced by contentedness. He felt like he was floating on cloud nine. He was in a room alone with Jennifer Parker-was he dreaming?

"Okay, so first of all, you hold the guitar like this," he said, picking it up to demonstrate before handing it to her. "Here. You try."

She proceeded to do just that, although the way she held the musical instrument looked a bit awkward.

"Not bad for someone who's never done it before. Here, just sort balance the guitar base on your leg...like this," he said, reaching his arm around Jennifer to get to the guitar. She didn't pull away or look uncomfortable in the least, so Marty allowed himself to linger there for just a second longer than necessary. He felt his face flush in that very moment, hoping that it wasn't too noticeable and repressing the less appropriate thoughts that followed after. He merely kept moving forward, giving Jennifer the next instructions.

...

In the end, they never got very far with the guitar lessons, but it didn't seem to matter. Minutes passed like seconds as they sat together in the dusty chairs of the music room for almost an hour, quickly losing track of time. Their conversation flowed easily, drifting from school to movies to how maybe Marty's band could be ready to play for an audience soon. He was surprised at how easy it was to talk to her. She was a far cry from the hard-to-get cheerleader he'd been subconsciously expecting.

A knock at the door brought them crashing back to reality. Marty's eyes met Jennifer's worried ones, but before they could react to it, the door burst open anyway. Standing on the other side, mop in hand, was the same middle-aged, balding janitor they'd seen on the way in. "What're you kids doing in here?" he asked with a scowl.

Marty jumped to his feet, rushing to their defense. "Nothing happened. It's not what it looks like. We were just talking, I swear!" he replied. If they were reported to Mr. Strickland, the disciplinarian would throw them both in detention without a second to explain themselves. Although he was no stranger to the detention room, he really didn't feel like dragging Jennifer into it.

He held his breath in anticipation. The janitor only stared at them, before letting out an exasperated sigh. "To be honest, I don't care what you've been doing. I just want you to leave so I could clean the room."

Marty mentally thanked whatever higher power existed for the other man's leniency. "We were just leaving! Isn't that right?"

Jennifer caught on easily. "Right. Let's go," she said, almost running out of the room with Marty in tow.

Once they were safely out of the room, they faced each other. "I really have to go. My dad's probably wondering where I am."

"Right."

"Well, it's been fun. I'll see you around," she said, before turning and walking towards the door that led to the outside.

"See ya," replied Marty. As he watched her leave, he wondered if what she said was true.

...

Monday, October 8, 1984

...

Even though they weren't wearing their distinctive, brightly-colored uniforms, Marty easily recognized the group of girls as cheerleaders. Looking away from his own lunch table, he searched for the familiar face from the other day. It didn't take long to find her. Sure enough, Jennifer was among them, sitting towards the center of the group and giggling at something the girl next to her had said.

The cheerleaders were tightly packed together at one of the more crowded tables in the cafeteria. The booming voices of the few jocks that hovered around the edge of the group made it so that their voices were easily heard over everyone else's.

"You starin' at her?"

The voice from next to him pulled Marty out of his thoughts.

"Was I really that obvious?" he replied back to his band mate. As soon as he saw his friends giving each other knowing looks, he knew the answer.

The boy next to him, Kenny, said, "You've been quiet this whole lunch." He then followed Marty's eyes to where he was looking, seeing Jennifer. "I get it now. It's that cheerleader chick from. If you like her, just ask her out already," he continued. A cocky grin appeared on his face. If Marty was in his friend's shoes and wasn't the one that had to actually do it, he'd probably be grinning too.

"Sure, then. I will," Marty said. Easier said than done, he thought. In reality, he'd been debating over whether to do just that all weekend. When it was just him and Jennifer alone in the music room, talking to her had felt natural and easy. In front of all her friends, however, he wasn't sure that it would stay that way.

What if she decided he wasn't cool enough to date? In the social ladder of high school, it wasn't like Marty was particularly unpopular or anything. He had his friends, most of which were in the band with him, and had even gone on a few dates in the past. (none of them had led to anything serious, though). However, he wasn't super-popular, either. Jennifer had her friend circle and he had his, and they mostly left each other alone with little overlap.

If Marty were to ask her out on a date right then and there, he would have to do so in front of the football players and other cheerleaders. What if he embarrassed himself and became the next gossip target of all those people? The group seemed to radiate intimidation. He felt like an invader, marching blindly into a place that didn't seem particularly friendly to outsiders. It was a far cry from the easily approachable girl he'd met the first time. He wondered what she would think when he asked the question. What if she turned him down out of concern for her reputation or acted like a different person in front of her friends?

Pushing the worries away, he forced himself to stand up and begin the endless walk to Jennifer's table. It was now or never. He had already told his friends he was going to do it. If he gave up now, the embarrassment of being too scared to ask some girl out would be worse than anything the jocks could dish out.

Finally, he reached the table, feeling the eyes of his friends on him. They watched him from the safety of their own table as he made his way through the crowd to get to her. He quickly realized that his friends weren't the only ones staring at him-the people surrounding Jennifer were as well. Their expressions ranged from contempt to mere curiosity and interest, and a few of them ignored him entirely and continued their conversations.

"Hey, Marty!" said Jennifer from the center of the group. The eyes of the people closest to her were still fixed on him. His throat suddenly went dry. "Hey, Jennifer," he said, trying to keep all traces of nervousness out of his voice. He looked her straight in the eyes. "Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?"

"Sure, what's up?" she said, standing up and excusing herself from the table. They walked away, standing just outside of the earshot of the others.

"Anyway, ever since we met the other day, I've been thinkin' about you," said Marty, trying to sound cool and confident. Girls liked that stuff, right?

Taking a deep breath and stuffing his hands into his pockets, he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to say. This was the whole reason he'd come over to her. "So, would you wanna go out with me sometime?"

"What, like on a date?"

"Sure, on a date."

A coy, little smile appeared on Jennifer's face. "I'm free Friday night," she said.

"That's great," said Marty, attempting to stay cool and not sound overly excited. "Maybe I could pick you up around eight and we could ...I don't know...go see a movie or something."

"It's a date. See you then!"

"See you then," Marty repeated back to her. They separated, with him heading back towards his friends and Jennifer going back to hers. He smiled when she waved to him before turning back to her table. A flood of relief washed over him. The actual experience of asking her out wasn't that bad at all. His earlier nervousness seemed sillier now. A big, dumb smile spread across his face as he walked towards his own table and to the expectant stares of his friends.

Sure, him and Jennifer were two different people and their friends didn't seem to have much in common. In that moment, however, he was fine with that. He still had a hot date on Friday no matter what anybody else thought.

He looked forward to the day with a new anticipation. The next four days of school would drag on for ages. Friday, it seemed, couldn't arrive soon enough.


	8. Temporal Experiment Number One

**A/N: Well, this is it: the last chapter. I've gone back and reordered the oneshots into chronological order. Also, some dialogue from this story is directly taken from the movie and obviously does not belong to me. Thanks for reading!**

...

Saturday, October 26, 1985

...

Although the parking lots of Lone Pine Mall had been crammed with hurried people and cars aiming to get into the last spot available not too long ago, it was now an expanse of empty pavement marked by painted white lines. The last shopper had left hours ago, and the sea of cars had slowly gone away until only a single van and eighteen-wheeler remained.

From the driver's seat of his project, which currently resided within the eighteen-wheeler, Emmett fixated on the digital clock near the dashboard. The numbers on the clock, which read 1:08 AM, seemed to drag forward at an agonizingly slow rate. Despite it being the middle of the night, he was not tired in the least. His eyes did not feel heavy; instead, he felt more energetic than ever, despite having pulled more than a few all-nighters recently. He was practically overcome with anticipation, and wondered if he should call Marty from the phone in his car and ask if he had forgotten to come.

Ultimately deciding to wait for the boy, he didn't make the call. _I've waited thirty years for this precise moment in time. I can handle waiting a few more minutes, _he thought_. _Besides, he'd called him only a few minutes before to ask him to pick up the video camera from his garage.

As he waited by himself, it was quiet, the only exception being the occasional whine of a passing car on the roads nearby. That allowed his many worries, which had been suppressed over the past week with hours of hard work, to come to the surface. The experiment he was about to test was very delicate, and if even the slightest thing did not go according to plan, the consequences to the fabric of the universe itself would be disastrous. If the machine failed, or himself and Marty became injured (or worse), the time stream would be altered dramatically. Besides, he didn't think he'd be able to live with himself if something happened to the kid because of an experiment that he had conducted.

Shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind, he chose to focus more on the positive side of things. The DeLorean time machine was finally finished, and he knew it had worked in at least one other timeline, if Marty's visit in 1955 was any indication. If all went well, history would soon be made in the seemingly quiet mall parking lot. It would be a monumentous day, the one he'd been waiting to come for thirty years! After the weeks and months and years he'd spent waiting, it was finally October 26, 1985.

1985! Thirty years ago, the year had sounded like some far-flung future looming in the distance. It was almost like a different planet. Now that it was finally here, it had lost its mystery. The portable cameras and tiny music players with earphones he'd once seen as fantastical was commonplace; the strange fashion and hairstyles could be seen on every street corner. It was typical now; just reality. The gradual passing of time had made the changes easier to swallow, and it wasn't like the sudden jumps forward like Emmett had observed in the things the boy from the future had brought back from his time.

"Einstein? Hey, Einstein? Where's the Doc?"

A muffled voice from outside interrupted his thoughts. Even from inside the car, he could recognize it as Marty. Emmett smiled. It was time to begin the experiment.

He pulled a small remote control and pressed the button to operate the door of the eighteen-wheeler. Once that was completed, he turned the ignition and set it to reverse as the door opened. Driving the project out of the eighteen-wheeler, he could see Marty, video camera in hand and the dog Einstein at his feet, for the first time that week.

During the week, he was unable to see Marty because himself and Einstein had taken up residence in a motel just out of Hill Valley. If something happened with the terrorists and they decided to show up early, the last thing he wanted to do was get Marty caught up in it all. He would be put in enough danger in a very short time. As much as he didn't want to turn to the group of Libyan terrorists for his invention's fuel, he saw no other option. The deadline had been coming quickly and nothing else had come close to being able to power the time machine which was currently exiting the larger truck.

The DeLorean made quite the entrance, descending onto the pavement in a flourish of smoke. Its stainless steel body and exposed cables gleamed under the dim light of street lamps. The outside of the car had obviously been modified, to say nothing of the alterations on its interior as well. Complex machinery was mounted to the back of the car, giving it a futuristic look.

"Marty! You made it," he said, opening the gull-wing doors of the car and stepping out.

The teen's only reply was a stunned "Yeah..."

"Welcome to my latest experiment. It's the one I've been waiting for all my life," said Emmett. After one miserable failure and useless invention after another, it was exhilarating to hear that he would one day succeed at something. That news had kept him going on the times when he wanted nothing more than to quit and forget the machine ever existed. He wondered briefly how, without that extra motivation, his cross-dimensional counterpart in the original timeline had succeeded at all without giving up.

"Um, well...It's a DeLorean, right?" Marty asked.

"Bare with me, Marty. All of your questions will be answered. Roll tape, and we will proceed," said Emmett while fumbling with a radiation suit. It was perfectly understandable for him to question the strangeness of the situation, but Emmett wanted the full explanation of how the machine worked on tape for posterity.

"Doc, is that a-"

"Never mind that, never mind that now," Emmett interrupted, cutting him off mid-sentence. He was running low on time and was itching to test the machine before the inevitable arrival of the terrorists, and needed to give Marty time to get away. He wasn't wearing a bulletproof vest under his shirt and denim jacket, unlike Emmett, who wore one under his lab coat.

Marty, without further questions, held up the camera and begin taping the experiment, recording the very thing Emmett remembered watching in the past.

He took a deep breath and begin to speak. There was no turning back now.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Emmett Brown. I'm standing in the parking lot of Lone Pine Mall. It's Saturday morning on October 26, 1985, 1:18 AM, and this is Temporal Experiment Number One."

...  
Gunshots. Yelling. Cursing. The squeal of tires against asphalt. Sonic booms. A crash, no, an _explosion_, so severe that Emmett could see flares of light and flames entering his peripheral vision. The assault on his senses was so loud it made his head throb and his eardrums ring in protest.

After an indiscernible amount of time (it could've been seconds or hours and he wouldn't have known either way), the barrage of sound returned once again to silence. His stomach ached from the bullets fired point-blank at him from such a short distance and his subsequent fall to the ground, so he laid in a crumpled-up position in the parking lot for a moment. He allowed himself to process everything that had happened. Staring up at the sky from his vantage point and remaining completely still, he almost couldn't believe it all.

After a wait that seemed to go on forever, it was all over now. The plan had worked! The machine had escaped the terrorists and Marty had successfully driven off to 1955. There would be no more wondering about what his future held or worrying over whether any kind of action he took would disrupt the time stream. It was truly the end of an era.

After a few moments, Emmett became aware of another person's presence next to him. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Doc. Doc. Oh, no..."

He recognized Marty's voice, despite it being more distraught than he'd ever heard it. Of course, from his perspective, he'd just watched his friend get gunned down in the middle of a parking lot by angry terrorists. Emmett wanted to reassure the boy of his fears.

It was then that he finally sat up and became aware of the world around him. He quickly took note of the terrorists' nearby van, which had smashed into a photo booth and was reduced to a demolished pile of splintered wood and fiberglass. He also saw Marty's face hovering over him and saying, "You're alive?"

Emmett unzipped his radiation suit to reveal silver-colored bullets lodged in a bulletproof vest.

"Bulletproof vest? But how did you know?" questioned an astonished but relieved Marty.

Emmett pulled Marty's letter out of his pocket. After thirty years, the crisp white paper had become yellowed and tattered, and the tape was falling off. The words were still legible as ever, though; they still bore the same warning. Although the paper didn't look like much, it was of the utmost importance. Without it, he would not be sitting up at all.

"But I never got a chance to tell you...what about all that talk of screwing up future events, the space-time continuum?" Marty continued. Marty. The kid who gave him companionship and whose warning saved his life. He was no longer a memory that existed in his mind; no longer a mere name in the birth announcements section of the newspaper or a strange kid he didn't know, but a real, existing person who had chose to become friends with him.

He'd waited a long time for it to happen and gave up a lot just for that one teenage boy and one DeLorean-turned-time-machine. There had been ups, downs, and everything in between, but he didn't regret it. If he had to, he'd do it all again. However, he did not plan to relive his own past like that. What was finished was finished. It was time to begin looking towards the future, or perhaps a distant time that he'd only ever known from stories. He did still have a time machine in his possesion, after all.

Before that night, his destiny, if a bit vague, had been known. He was painstakingly careful about making sure everything happened as it was supposed to and that everything that was on schedule.

Now, aside from getting trapped in the Old West, which had been made known to him during Marty's second visit, the future was wide open. It was a blank slate that could contain whatever he made of it. He was entering a whole new chapter of his life. Who knew what new adventures and discovery it could hold? The possibilities were infinite...

He turned to Marty, who he certainly had to thank sometime for everything he'd done. A smile spread across his face as he replied to his question.

"Well, I figured...what the hell?"


End file.
